The Rebel's Guide to Memes and Spellcasting
by ayanamifaerudo
Summary: In which an MGIT doesn't know whether to be serious and angsty or power through the shitstorm with memes and sarcastic humor.
1. Alone

The soldiers roared as they drank to the health of the Divine, roaring in laughter as one of their friends spilled their drink down the front of their leather jerkin. The night maid rolled her eyes to the ceiling as she served them another round of bitter ale.

In the corner, a few woodsmen and traders were grouped around a large table all eyeing each other beadily, serious faces in various states of stoicism as they clutched their cards to their chests. Some dogs were scuffling about their legs, looting around for scraps that may have been thrown in passion when one of the players lost a round.

The door opened and in came the few herbalists and healers in the village. They just ended a shift at the makeshift tents for the injured. They wearily smiled, waved at her as they passed and settled on the stools at the bar counter.

The infamous storyteller had the entire front of the fireplace to himself and his captive audience. He was gesturing wildly, recounting the moment when his equally infamous friend defeated the Arishok in single combat. Most of his listeners were women from the chantry kitchens, dewy-eyed and hung on to every word. She shook her head, amused, as the dwarf added a wyvern or two.

An intense negotiation of sorts was going on behind her table. It looked like someone was trying to pass trinkets worn by the knights of Redcliffe when the horde of the living dead enslaved the castle and besieged the village. One of the page boys stood up and pointed at the man and loudly proclaimed that the man and his amulets were fake. The room went silent. The man also stood up with a fierce scowl on his face and would have socked the boy when the door opened once more.

Anything the man would have said and done died a silent death as the commander entered the cabin. He scuffed his boots in the doorway and looked around. A shout from the place by the fireplace had him changing directions from going to the bar to joining the table there; a few ladies were giggling and blushing. Everyone settled once more.

At her own table, she raised a glass of that bitter ale.

"Happy birthday to me."


	2. Out of Sorts

While everyone and their mother would have loved to be dumped into their favorite fantasy world. She could understand the appeal; but she was not one of them. After all, she dealt with it in her everyday life. But when she did imagine falling into the worlds of the video games she played, she would have thought that she would have a pack full of supplies that were needed for a zombie apocalypse. With a neverending stock of tampons, bob paper, and chocolate.

No such luck.

Instead, she found herself with a backpack of clothes along with her iPad and a Swiss army knife.

She knew the lore and the events to come like the back of her own hand. But she couldn't read the writing on the chantry board. Thank goodness she could speak Common. Praise this world's creators for being speakers of English and basing the languages of some nations on real world ones. At least she would know when she was being cursed in Orlesian. Always know the curses first when learning a new language.

The flip-flops she wore when she dropped in were not appropriate for the snowy drifts. Leather boots, however, were confining and smelly after you take them off. Thick, woolen socks were a given if you didn't want frostbite or smelly feet.

She needed to take a bath at the commons at the crack of dawn so as to be the first to use the water, which would have been shared with the others. She was now planning to have someone dig a hole in the cabin and make her a wooden bathtub in the ground.

She sniffed at anything they gave her they label food at the mess tent. She had to dunk the whole bread roll into the grey water they call a stew and put it before a fire to soften.

They could see that she was a creature of comfort and privilege. She had straight, white teeth. Her nails were not chipped. She was a little plump. Her posture was not bent with backbreaking labor.

The people around the village all looked at her funny. Whispers told of a runaway daughter of a lord. Whether Orlesian or Fereldan remained to be determined.

The first time she needed to pee, she was directed to an area about fifty yards from the side gates of the village. There were four tiny houses measuring two-by-two feet built over a narrow ditch. The doors were made with tree branches latched together and there were no windows to speak of.

Ah, outhouses. When she opened the door of one she may have expected a crude sort of toilet; but what greeted her was the sight of more latched-together branches with a hole, the size of a dinner plate, hacked in the middle. Plus a hot blast of ammonia and shit in various stages of decomposition.

She fled like the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels. Until she face-planted on a patch of snow.

She remained there for some time which prompted a concerned scout to approach and ask if she was alright.

A muffled snort and a whine. "I thought I could do this but my body is definitely not ready."

She spent a fourth of her earnings from Adan, that grumpy bastard, on bottles of lye and a shovel.

From that moment forth, any toilet business were done about fifty yards from _her_ cabin.


	3. It Begins

**It's my birthday. So I'm posting this week instead of next week. Hoho.**

* * *

The cabin door opened with a crash as a chantry sister came marching out amidst the laughter of the children behind her. A thunderous scowl marred her expression as she tried to wipe the blue powder off the sleeves of her once-pristine robes.

Her annoyed grumbles, however, were drowned out by the head cook's voice as she yelled at a scullery maid. The poor girl could just hang her head in embarrassment and shame as her mistress listed a litany of her supposed shortcomings from not scrubbing the tables thoroughly to not peeling enough potatoes for dinner.

The messenger boy kept himself from staying to watch the spectacle any longer and hurried towards the smithy where he gave a missive Harritt from the commander. The blacksmith tugged his moustache in frustration as he calculated the iron needed and the trees to be felled for a couple of trebuchets.

He looked to the figures out and about the frozen lake. At least, they would not be starving for the short supply of game around this time of year. Fish may not be as warm and hearty as a mutton stew but at least it could fill up the ever-increasing population of the small village.

News of the Conclave and the presence of the Divine nearby became a beacon for the outcasts and the desperate. Most were welcome, but mages were eyed with suspicion and were closely followed by the templars. A few tussles here and there but the seeker's presence was always a deterrent for anything more serious. They just wanted an end to this war. Mayhap this gathering could be that step.

That optimism was not shared by the healing area. What few healers could be found were all occupied by the number of wounded refugees from the ongoing war. Raw ingredients were running low. No one wanted to use the leeches again ever since the girl, who may or may not be a noble's daughter, gave a detailed description of what those nasty crawlies were really doing. Adan was yelling for his new assistant. Someone reminded him that he sent her up to the temple to deliver a chantry mother's tonic.

Said assistant was wandering down a corridor, completely lost. She didn't know the exact layout of the temple since the only route she remembered was from when she played Origins. The games never showed the inside of the rebuilt building before the detonation of raw energy.

Which could happen any day. Any minute. It could be happening right now and she really didn't want to be immortalized in a husk of screaming horror. Why did she ever volunteer to come here?

She turned a corner, when she spied a man with his head to the door intently listening to something on the other side. Huh, the Trevelyan lord. The reason she was lost. She was about to do a jump-scare when he noticed her and went _Shhhhh_ … before turning back to listen at the door.

Okay, she was curious. She laid her head against the door, too.

She only just heard a plea for help when Trevelyan kicked the door open. "What's going on here?"


	4. Another Mistake

One hundred thirty-seven servants. Twenty-eight messengers.

Seventy-seven pilgrims and devotees.

Eighty-one Inquisition soldiers.

Sixty-four nobles and their retinues. Twenty-three from Orlais. Fifteen from Ferelden. Eight from Nevarra. Thirteen from the Free Marches. Five from Antiva.

One hundred forty-one mages. Two hundred eighty-two templars.

Eighteen Grand Clerics. Thirty-two Mothers. Sixty-five clerics.

One Divine.

Two survivors.

And he thought the blighted magister should have been one of the fatalities. The plan had been simple.

He supposed it was extremely suspicious for him to be there at the exact point in time when they needed to make something of this mess. There was a chance that he would have been turned away or imprisoned or killed. But the ones in charge were desperate enough to take help wherever they could. Although he was sure that the Nightingale had someone tailing him wherever he went.

At first, he tried to take his magic from the male human, but the energy was too embedded in his essence and _he_ was too weak. It was too unstable and it reacted to the pulses of Fade energy being emitted by the Breach. He would wait. So he did what he could to contain and stabilize the mark and healed the man.

He turned to the other survivor. The woman lay sleeping peacefully; unlike her fellow prisoner. She looked untroubled but her skin was pale and bruised and small cuts were scattered throughout. He could speculate that the man survived the Fade because of the mark but he could not fathom how the woman survived. She was not a mage nor was she a warrior of any kind if the village gossip could be relied upon. She was nothing. Just another casualty. But he did heal her, he owed her that much for what he had done.

When he had given his assessment to the seeker and the spymaster, he asked for leave to go up the mountain. He reasoned that maybe he could discern something from the ruins that the non-Fade experts, non-mage others could have looked over. The two women spent some time in discussion but, in the end, gave their permission with the stipulation that soldiers accompanied him. A dwarf sneaked into their party, giving a highfalutin reason to the soldiers why the seeker let him go.

They could not even get past the outermost bailey.

There was a small rift in the Fade and demons were pouring out of it. Demons who were once spirits but were twisted when the unstable energies on both sides of the tear forced them out into the waking world. Another blot in his increasing list of things that should not have happened.

Though their numbers were added to by soldiers coming down from the forward camp or ones fresh from the village, they were tiring. He was the only mage. He could not stop and use what mana he had to heal the soldiers. He needed to maintain barriers and to drive back the demons while keeping an eye on the rift.

But more and more demons come.


	5. Luscious

There were twenty bodies wrapped in cloth, burlap, and rags and secured with ropes on the bridge just outside the main gate to Haven. At this point, the soldiers who could be spared and some civilians, who weren't cowering in fear, were making do with what was available in wrapping up the dead bodies.

One man came screaming down the slushy dirt road, yelling about the end of the world.

She was pushing two handfuls of snow into the other prisoner's left hand just before he went down on his knee in pain, clutching the hand of sparking green.

Three soldiers, who she was sure were going to go awol, were halted by the stern glare of the seeker. They were ordered to hold the secondary outpost where most of the dead were being kept temporarily.

A young cleric staggered against a tree, his arm around an equally young soldier.

If Trevelyan found it weird that she insisted they go down the embankment instead of crossing the bridge across the lake, he didn't comment about it. The seeker, however, made a disgusted noise and tried to argue; but she made her own frustrated noise and jumped down the bank. Just in time for a green-blobbed Fade rock to strike the bridge to smithereens.

Four shades and two wisps were dealt with before they ascended the stairs to where she knew the first group of fighters were trying to stave off the demons and help get survivors to safety. The seeker was a bull of a woman who fearlessly charged the greater shade. Trevelyan, on the other hand, winked at her before he launched three daggers into a wisp.

She spent her time playing tag with some wisps and patty-cakes with the corpse of a templar. She got two small bottles of health potion and a bottle of lyrium along with a few silvers. She also found out that she'd make a fair beater even if she was only using a fallen branch.

When the first rift was successfully sealed, she just stood there, bewildered and scared and excited and confused all at once. It was all she could do before she blurted out all of their conversation word for word. Although she noticed that they didn't exactly say the game script verbatim.

She did learn that Trevelyan's middle name was Maxwell but his _first_ name was Lucius.

Her delighted laughter echoed around the fallen rocks.


	6. Obliviate

She told the truth.

Or as close to the truth as possible.

 _Where does she come from?_ She came from a small town in the east, where fog rolled in from the sea in the early mornings.

 _How did she get here?_ She was lost then she followed a caravan of merchants to Haven.

 _Why?_ To see what all the fuss was about.

 _She went through a number of jobs all over the village. It seemed a good way to know the ins and outs. Is she a spy?_ She didn't fancy being skewered when she didn't know how to wield skewers. The kitchens were already crowded. Her aim with a bow was bad, so hunting was out. She only knew cross stitch. She'd rather shave her head bald than come anywhere near those damn piss pits again.

 _Why settle at the apothecary? Learning how to make a grenade? Stealing ingredients for poison?_ She was the only one who could put up with Adan by blocking out his grumbles with Two Steps From Hell.

 _Is she a mage?_ She wished she was. How cool would that be?

 _Did she kill the Divine?_ No.

 _How would she know if she does not remember anything?_ She was just outside the door. The door opened and everything went green.

 _What was she doing at the temple?_ Adan gave her an errand to deliver a tonic to Mother WhatsHerName.

 _If she was doing a delivery to a chantry mother, who was housed in the mezzanine, what was she doing at the apartments for the Divine?_ She got lost, okay! She asked for directions from that full-of-himself lordling and he gave her dubious instructions that made her end up wandering for the better part of the morning.

 _Where does she come from?_ What? She said that already.

 _Did she kill the Divine?_ No.

 _Is she a noble's daughter like everyone's saying?_ Why did everyone always ask that? She wouldn't be there if she was. Scratch that. She would totally be there but only with better clothes and chocolate bonbons.

 _Is she a mage?_ Did they see her chugging lyrium?

 _Then how can she explain what she has done during the trek to the Breach?_ She didn't know how to fight with…

 _The bridge. The trapped people in the cabin. The scouts on the mountain path. The Pride demon._

"Merde."


	7. Weakened

I'm posting early because...

Happy Halloween!

* * *

The first attempt was made in the middle of the night when all of Haven had settled into watchful sleep. The door creaked open and the would-be assassin tiptoed two steps when he suddenly tripped. A second later there was a lot of banging and clanging interspersed with colorful swearing.

Five seconds more and the pots, pans, and buckets she pilfered from the kitchens had settled on the floor and the man's face was shoved into the floor by a calloused hand. She, meanwhile, was sitting on the bed rumpled and annoyed by the interruption from much-needed sleep. The Nightingale's agent (judging from the small, raven pin on the left shoulder) just smirked at her and melted back into the shadows along with his quarry.

In the morning, no less than six random people made this gesture where they touched their head as they bowed, then their chest, when she passed by on the way to Adan's hut for work. Others looked on in awe and whispers followed her everywhere. She made eye contact with everyone, giving terse nods but smiled at the children.

It was scary, this crowd-thinking. One day she was being vilified and spat upon; the next, she was being hugged and bowed to by people she was certain saw her dripping in manure when she attempted to make a grenade from the dim memory of a googled how-to. A mob or a flock. Or both. Both was good.

She was singing _Baa-baa, black sheep_ (the only song she knew about sheep) over and over on the way to the apothecary. Where the newly-recruited healers stood in silent wonder as she went to prepare her table for the day's brewing. Even Adan was silent. It wasn't until the loudly whispered _Sooth_ when she tiredly sighed and bumped her head on the desk.

The second attempt was when she went down outside the gates to gather some elfroot. They were coated in frost but still viable for less potent potions. The crunching of snow just a few steps from her was her only warning before she whipped around, only to hear a squeal and a grunt.

This time, one was out cold, lying in the snow, while the other was yelling, "You filthy knife ear!" at the scout who had a knife to his throat. She wondered how he could say that to the face of one who's holding a pointy thing to his jugular. Desperate times? The elf, who she recognized was one of those rescued from the mountain path, nodded at her then whistled. Another scout popped out of the snow and they dragged their prisoners inside the village.

It was a testament to how she had not all her faculties yet. The _borrowed_ things from the kitchen, the attempts and the unnoticed bodyguards. She observed the slight tremble of her hands as she held the frozen cuttings.

Despite being healed physically, she was still very weak.

* * *

This chapter was supposed to be titled 'VIP' because it was sponsored by the Nightingale Security Services "Shank first, ask questions later".


	8. Spaghetti dalla Terra a Thedas

The recruits groaned as they slumped in their chairs and bent their heads to the table. Some of them were comparing their aches and pains and how many bodies they dragged down the mountain. The owner of The Singing Maiden took pity on them and announced that a round was on the house. She was met with relieved cheer.

Woodcutters from the nearby table loudly asked them what they were complaining about. The number of trees they had to cut and trim the whole day was equal to a week's worth of work. And the felled trees were not enough. They were looking at around five to six large pyres. It was a small blessing that they did not have to provide for the ones in the temple.

The statement attracted a disgusted noise and a frown of disapproval from the Seeker and they meekly returned to their bread and pottage. She turned back to her own dinner and she frowned deeper on how she was persuaded by, of all people, the dwarf to come to the tavern.

The door opened and in came the storyteller followed by his latest victim, the elven apostate, who was presented to her table with aplomb. The dwarf expressed his apologies for being tardy but Chuckles had to be dragged from his books and herbs. His nightly audience waved his excuses and plied him with his dinner and drink.

It was quite compelling, the story. With one of the heralds twirling around with his daggers and a smile nearly as roguish as the dwarf's, doing away with demons in a steady manner while enduring the raging pain in his glowing hand. The seeker planting her shield before them, as she plowed through the snow, leading them with surety. Meanwhile, mage extraordinaire had icicles and barriers growing around them, defending and attacking at once. And who could forget how _yours_ _truly_ accompanied the other herald on the dramatic rescue of the lost scouts in the deep mountainside.

The tavern fell into a hush with the conclusion, cheered by the actions of the valiant and the miraculous, slightly obscuring the grief and confusion over the devastation. The lull broken by the din and clatter of wooden bowls and eating utensils.

 _Bang!_ The door to the small kitchen opened wide and a smiling herald came out holding a large plate of a reddish something. She was chatting with Flissa as she described a device that could roll out the dough easily and uniformly. The tavern owner shook her head but told her that she was welcome to experiment in her kitchen provided she teach her this new recipe. The herald looked puzzled and pointed out that it was not a new recipe and Antiva may take offense.

She was about to head for a vacant table when a voice called out to her.

"What's that you got there?"


	9. The Other Herald

It's the 1st of December! Where has the year gone?

* * *

She watched from a roof.

Three bells past daybreak, people began lining up the pathway from the herald's cabin to the Chantry. Word had spread throughout the village that the marked Herald was awake and would eventually make his way to the summons of the Seeker Pentaghast. Children pushed through the taller and larger bodies of the adults, who were then jockeying for the positions on the front. The better to receive the herald's blessing firsthand.

Someone started pushing from the back, disgruntled voices arose and would have escalated if not for the appearance of soldiers. They lined the pathway and waited. Some of the villagers were looking around and asking about the whereabouts of the other, the lady herald. Wouldn't she be there so as to welcome her other half?

Whoever started that absurd idea of them being halves of each other, they would have words. Even if it was the scary Nightingale. It was probably the scary Nightingale. However the advisers were going to spin the Heralds of Andraste cult and use them as proposition propaganda, they would have words. Even if it was Ambassador Montilyet. And her you-don't-know-what-hit-you manipulations.

The sooth/sybil/seer/oracle/whatever they were calling her was more worrying. Interfere a little, interfere a lot. Debating with herself on a roof in the cold…

The door opened and Luscious was not wearing that awful beige pajamas. Thank goodness. He paused, bewildered at the crowd before him. There was a flash of uncertainty but recovered quickly and he made that patent rakish grin. He went down the few steps, grasping the hands of those who reached out to him. Saluting and clapping the shoulders of the soldiers.

 _Honestly_. She rolled her eyes. The moment he opened his eyes and focused his gaze on her at the dungeons, he gave her that same grin and asked if she was a desire demon come to tempt him into blasphemy. Then promptly went back to sleep.

He was by the mabari statues when he spotted her. He smiled (with relief?) and made a come-hither gesture. He got back a rude, one-fingered salute. If it was possible, he smiled more widely and approached her perch.

"Oh lady bird, would you not come down your heavenly abode and grace us with your presence. Bestow upon me, your humble but handsome servant, your favor and accompany me to the dwelling of the most holy."

Cloudy with a chance of snowballs.


	10. First Council

Chancellor Roderick marched out of the makeshift war room in high dudgeon, muttering about thugs, washed out chantry sisters, and blasphemers. The two templars who came with him to arrest the false heralds of Andraste looked to the seeker then bowed their heads. They would follow her orders.

The tension brought by the chantry brother when he barged in the middle of the council introductions dissipated and the occupants of the room breathed a sigh of relief. The ambassador gave a small smile to everyone then made a notation on the paper mounted on her clipboard with the gravity-defying candle. Commander Cullen relaxed his hand on the pommel of his sword while he and the Nightingale rearranged the small tokens on the map toppled by the Seeker's over-enthusiastic thump of the Writ of the Divine. The lady herald tried to muffle a snort as Trevelyan whispered something to her.

Probably about the chancellor's rat face. Which the Seeker Pentaghast heard and she looked sharply at them. They straightened their stances and tried to look innocent. They failed. But the seeker hid her own grin.

They went back to the interrupted introductions and the Thedosians were abashed that they did not even asked for her name before. Not in the dungeons, nor during the trek up the mountain. Not even during the interrogation. She just grinned cheekily and told them in no uncertain terms that she would not be answering to _my lady, herald, lady herald_ (which in the months to come would be unavoidable and she would get more monikers besides). She gave them her name and her assurance that she would stay to help.

The name eased something of Leliana's doubts, for she recognized it and asked for pardon for not recognizing her before. She tilted her head and asked why she would be known, a question echoed by the others. The Nightingale waved her hand vaguely and told of a young woman walking into the University of Orlais to demand access to the library. She needed to cross-reference the findings she made with some ruins in the Emerald Graves. Leliana's little birds made a side note. The professors thought her a green, upstart scholar.

Mollified by some information of a previously unknown person, the meeting proceeded.

And she only paid half attention to what was said, contemplating on the little projects she had going in her cabin and the letters she had to pen. She would wait for her strength to return before sending them. Slowly but surely.

She was drawn back to the discussion when she was asked if she was alright with staying in Haven while Luscious went to the Hinterlands. _Oooh_ , _non-dictators asking for her opinion_.

She will stay.


	11. Diplomacy and Noblesse Oblige

Lady Josephine Montilyet was not enjoying her predicament. Dealing with nobles was bit of an old hat for a seasoned player of the Game such as she, and Lady Montilyet was not the kind of diplomat who could be easily ruffled by a marquis taking advantage of the chaos to make do with dubious claims to the land. Due to other more immediate concerns to be had in the formal establishment of an organization, she did not have the time to look over the particulars with where said organization was currently ensconced. She admitted that it was a failing on her part but there was simply nothing (or too much) that could be done.

It was why she sent for the Lord Trevelyan in the first place, not only to review his family's background and how they could utilize their noble status, but also to gauge his skills in dealing with his fellow nobles. Without being a dandy about it.

She did get a herald but it was a different herald who opened the door to her… charmingly rustic office.

The Lady Herald was carrying a stack of books, which was in danger of toppling over when she abruptly stopped as she registered there was someone other than the ambassador. Introductions were made and Marquis DuRellion thought he might find a more willing ear in the herald. She pretended that [Thedosian] inheritance and _legal_ protocols were not her forte and deferred to the good lady ambassador. Lady Montilyet, as expected, tacitly negotiated an agreement forged with _noblesse oblige_ , how it would be _him_ who would be honored and not the Chantry, because of his generosity, and name-dropping the Divine who would encourage unity and not division.

Marquis DuRellion departed with a resigned but satisfied air and an assurance to rouse more support.

The ambassador found herself with the burden of carrying the stack of books and was told that although the herald did finish reading all that was required of her so she wouldn't be offending political and social sensibilities, she needed to be at the practice grounds for another round of ass-whooping. Hers being the one soundly trounced with the more experienced with pointy things.

Lady Montilyet was not in the least surprised; the lady herald was more inclined to the more practical side of things at the moment. Even though she did do the _herald duties_ (smiling like a loon in front clerics and nobles), like she called them, she much preferred to continue her work at the alchemist's, earning wages even if she was given an allowance. She also despaired of ever impressing upon her the proper dressing of a lady of status. _What status?_ She was asked exasperatedly. _I am not a noble_. Her status as a symbol of the Inquisition then.

"I like my trousers. And don't you dare let the servants sneak into my cabin to steal them or they'll be in for a nasty surprise."

They did try and was met with an explosion of dung before they were even over the threshold. Needless to say, her mode of dress was left alone. As well as the various little eccentricities that that had cropped up around the village which could be traced to her: crates of lye, burning of leeches, mounds of snow melted to replace communal bathwater thrice a day, finagling with the placement of people, making mages do things. _Jeez, it's just arts and crafts, you paranoid templars._

Leliana told her let her be. _There is no harm in it and it's cutting your own work in half_.

So the Inquisition chugged along in its early days of infancy. _Because, by the gods, if I'm going to be stuck here, might as well not suffer through all these medieval shit._


	12. Routine

She was a little more padded than most. She knew that. The whole of Haven knew she loved her food, attested by the fact that she didn't shy away from the greasiest piece of druffalo she coerced the storyteller to shoot down for her (although the line was drawn at hard tack). The meat went to the feeding of the servants and the soldiers _only_. _None for you Noble Coco_. Plus, they could see her nip her hands to her small bag on occasion, popping some winterberries which were her newfound favorite.

She was not strong enough to lift a proper sized sword like she wanted to be. But she was nimble and quick and she used that to get around her opponents and striking them on that fleshy, vulnerable part of the neck. An underhanded tactic, the recruits would grumble, but she pointed out that nobility when fighting someone who intends to kill you is seriously a one-way ticket to Yomi.

What's _yow-mi?_ _Your orifice_. She grumbled about being pushed on the ground by the weight of a shield. For the nth time that day. She was improving though; that was two less than yesterday.

So it was not a bad idea to pencil in her apothecary/alchemist assistant work after the practice yard. Adan was usually delighted that she was there to take over potion stock and he could get back to his first love of making things go boom; therefore she could nick a salve to soothe some of the bruises. The other assistants she sequestered. Hang Adan. She wasn't going to fill orders of crates of health and rejuvenation potions for the healers by herself.

Solas was there some days. It was the only cabin with the most proper equipment and materials anywhere in the area of the Frostbacks. They greeted each other perfunctorily and continued to ignore each other in favor of their own brewing. Outside of that cabin, the only interaction they got was when Varric could hustle him from his voluntary solitude to the tavern.

On occasion, she would utter a soft question into the aether, seemingly talking to herself; but then the elf would quietly answer her. What bemused the others, as they curiously observed the curiosities, herald and elf apostate, was how in sync they worked. Their stations were adjacent to each other. When the herald ran out of bottles on her table she would reach out to the other, while the mage would unobtrusively slip behind her and take the mortar and pestle she used earlier. Herbs and reagents exchanged hands frequently.

The apothecary would empty out at noon. Most would go to the communal mess tent or the tavern. The apostate to his cabin, the herald to hers.

That evening, after her _herald duties_ (this time with the military arm), she found the book on plants and fungi and their uses she asked for from one of the mages and forgot some evening at the alchemist's. She skimmed through the pages and an amused smile adorned her face.

It was full of cross-outs and scribbles.


	13. Fade

The first time she found herself in the Fade, it was a little bit clearer than she expected. She was lucid and awake. If one could call that being awake in the Fade. She was beside a lake with a castle in the background. The sky was blue but the mountains were painted with reds and yellows. The place felt real and raw. The energy that surrounded her was ancient but different than what she was used to. And too many eyes.

The subsequent times she came to the Fade, she was aware and ready. It did not project the scenery she first landed in and she dismissed the attempts before the energies bowed and showed the true face of this broken world of dreamers.

She walked but she did not dream. Which was both a blessing and a curse. She wanted her normal dreams back. Part of the Fade and yet not. She made herself her own niche, having no desire to roam around. Not yet.

She scrolled through the conjured device.

* * *

Flashes of fade-lightning. A massive vortex swirling and pulsing. The ripples from the Breach spread throughout that area corresponding to the rent on the other side. For all the power churning in the air, there was only silence.

Blue-grey eyes surveyed the devastation that he had indirectly wrought. He closed his eyes in regret and pain, wondering if there was ever an end to all his mistakes. He walked here and there. He knew not how many times he fell asleep and returned to this place to find a way to mend the tear.

The spirits in the area were ripped to the other side and corrupted. The remaining ones fled and hid, not even answering to his summons. He dared not risk calling for the few who would not hesitate to come to his aid.

But it was not empty. And while there were no spirits to recreate memories, those who reside in Haven were enough to fill the emptiness with all their anger, fear, and desperation. They were relieving their own memories of the violence in a constant loop.

The clearer they were, the more they were connected to the Fade. For there was a trace of what had been in all but for the Children of the Stone.

* * *

She felt like celebrating when she woke up and remembered that she had dreamed normal dreams. Not in the Fade but in that esoteric pocket of space and time where dreams in her own world took place. She dreamed of home and friends and family. And she recorded it in writing, for dreams were all she had left of them.

It did not last long.

* * *

He found her accidentally.

It was the night before they were set to go to the Hinterlands. He wanted to assess the Fade in Haven once more, however futile it would be. There might be some changes since the marked herald stabilized the Breach.

It was not as silent as before; and the dreaming population of the village had company. Adverse spirits were in abundance, for they could not resist the lure of the people's pain. But benign spirits were also there and were darting in circles around a certain area across the Fade lake. The demons stayed away.

There was someone sitting on a chair as plush and luxurious as can be: a girl, a young woman illuminated by what seemed like magelights. There was a wisp of thought that there was something different with those magelights and the energy that surrounded her. But the thought slipped away as he noticed that she was also surrounded by wisps that she seemed not to see. And she was singing. The silence filled in by a soul-searching love song sung in an unfamiliar language.

But he understood. Stirring and emotive. He was drawn to the rapture he saw on her face.

He took a step.

She looked up at that moment, straight to where he was concealed by magic, partially behind a tree. She frowned and tilted her head.

Was she aware that he was there?

She vanished.


	14. Still Suspect

A bro fist for Varric.

A noogie from Luscious.

A jaunty salute for Cassandra.

A puzzled frown from Solas.

The herald's party departed early in the morning with a small cart of supplies and a few soldiers for rotation at the Crossroads. She packed a crate of health and stamina potions and insisted on extra rejuvenation potions on the belts of the beginning members of the Inner Circle. All she could do for now.

The letters forwarded to her by the agents of the Nightingale smelled of citrus and she grinned in amusement for there were other ways to conceal other than invisible ink and coded writing. And she wasn't going to share them anytime soon.

She and the Nightingale hadn't had a conversation since that interrogation. An uncomfortable questioning about knowledge and foresight she bullshited her way through. The twins would be so proud of her. Leliana had let her be for now. After all, if they could admit an apostate mage into the ranks with more obscure origins than her more visible wanderings around Thedas, then they could not afford to turn away one of the Heralds of Andraste.

And the Inquisition needed to funnel their limited resources to gathering funds and allies. And information more relevant to the cause than details of one single person.

She was under no illusion that she was not suspect, judging from the scouts-cum-bodyguards who trailed after her.

With her continual work as the assistant to the apothecary and the _herald_ duties that had sprung from nowhere, she barely had time to swing by the practice yard. She knew she had to. There would come a time when the inevitable - being out in the field – happened and she needed to know how to better wield a physical weapon, if only to distract them from her being a nonmage enigma.


	15. Restored

Master Taigen's notes were helpful.

There was a two-column list of the plants and trees available in and around Haven and where they were viable to grow. That was only the first page. The other pages were dedicated to each flora's properties, on what potions, salves, and other concoctions they could be utilized, and their reactions to certain combinations.

She cross-checked with her own notes and lists she had made on her travels and raiding the University of Orlais' library. What she found was enough to satisfy her. She could supplement her own stores with what she had to work with here.

That was an embarrassing episode. Contrary to what the Nightingale said, she did not demand, in a hoity-toity voice, to be let into the library. Her posture, her features, and her manner of dress were enough to grant her an entrance immediately. She was not a complete idiot. She had gold, she dressed to impress. This was Orlais after all.

The only problem was she forgot she couldn't read _and_ write the Common Script. Her mortification caught a snooty archivist. He checked what aisle she was in and her lost expression, and proceeded to lecture her that although he admired her dedication to her female amusements, the books were so advanced that she needed a few more years or a proper tutor before she could comprehend anything.

She bristled at that. But what could she do? She couldn't read anything, let alone comprehend even a phrase from the books. She retreated back to her rooms at an inn with a private garden to lick her wounds and nurse her wounded pride. She hired a language tutor the next day. With great discretion and a bag of coins, of course.

She let out a yawn and stood up, stretching her arms and legs. It was late afternoon and she finally had a time to herself. Master Taigen's cabin was formally recognized as the lady herald's residence. She would be keeping it neat herself, thank you very much.

She paused in her stretching. There was an electric rush and warmth suffused her being. Something snug and glowing, and finally retaking its place.

She smiled. _It's back_.


	16. Letters

_Ma cherie Belle,_

 _The mountains of Haven are positively delightful! If one loves to snuggle under blankets on cold, lonely nights. Not to mention the absence of those lovely, little cakes you introduced me when I visited Val Royeaux. Your timely rescue from my profound discomfort on the steps of the University was greatly appreciated._

 _At the moment, I have gained a position at the newly established Inquisition which, I am sure, is causing a sensation at the heart of ecclesiastical power. With this new appointment comes new concerns that I thought I would never encounter outside of Orlais. But no matter how far a lady runs from Orlais, Orlais comes to her._

 _C'est la vie._

 _I have received your last letter and I must say the new fragrance caused a sensation among the messengers. I now have four orders of scented paper from giggling mademoiselles eager to add them to their arsenal as they further entice their objects of affection._

 _But do not trouble your errand boys to attempt to follow Havard's Steps, there may be a time in the future that I would visit the valley again._

 _A bientot!_

* * *

 _Bas_

 _Stormy and Snowy are starting to go red in the face. Any idea how to deal with your annoying pets? Some of the boys are missing you something fierce and I was bullied to let them visit you. They wanted to meet your other half._

 _Provide food._

* * *

She layered an elaborately filigreed paper on top of a plain one and the two seamlessly blended together as she drew a mark on the corner. She then put it in an equally elaborate envelope then sealed with red wax on which something shimmered briefly and disappeared.

She sighed tiredly, happy that the day was done and her to-do list for the day was accomplished. A thought strayed then and she soundly laid her head on the table. She forgot to read Josephine's assigned homework of the who's who of the Orlesian nobility and their obscure cadet branches scattered in the Free Marches. She wondered if she could manage to escape that particular chore.

There was a knock on the door.

"Lady Herald, a message from the Hinterlands."


	17. Mother Lion

It was a well-known fact that Cullen Stanton Rutherford was a mother hen.

He did not coddle his men during training nor in missions but he did double, sometimes triple, check with the quartermaster for his division when it comes to the provisions and needs of his soldiers - from the baby-faced, new recruits to the seasoned Knight-Captain Rylen.

He worried about the supply lines and how they may not be enough for the steadily burgeoning population of Haven. A tic was fast developing over Ambassador Josephine's left eye when he consulted with her, brandishing Rylen's report.

He oversaw the building of the trebuchets and already re-calibrated them thrice that week. Leliana watched in exasperation as he drilled the ones assigned to them over their mechanics.

He personally consoled the friends and family of the soldiers who were lost during the explosion, visiting the healing tents, the barracks, and the pyres. He also painstakingly wrote on several sheets of parchment words of sorrow, gratitude, and pride to the ones whose loved ones gave their lives for a hope pinned in that Conclave.

He inspected each unit and caravan that were sent to the outposts in the Hinterlands, whether they may be from his division of the council trifecta, ensuring that they were well-equipped for the journey ahead. Physically and mentally able.

She remembered how he fussed around their party, the one which to escort her to the Hinterlands. He vehemently opposed the idea of her going, but the good Mother Giselle, the conniving bitch hiding behind a pious façade, insisted that she be there, too. Why she was being summoned, when she was not the one to witness "Andraste" saving them, she did not know.

But the support of the Chantry was needed, insisted the ambassador and the spymaster, despite their own denouncement of Chancellor Roderick. No one could deny their power, even if it's over the general populace's beliefs alone.

She understood the might of organized religion well. As did Cullen.

He was fretting over the fact that she was not ready to go out there, with all the rogue mages, templars, and bandits roaming around the countryside. She was very good at evasion and running away, but what if she couldn't run.

She scoffed. She could look after herself; she didn't need a sword for that.

But they did not know it.

And the commander was giving her tips and tricks on how to stay away from the range of basically anything pointy. For the fifth time. The soldiers going with her to build the watchtowers requested by Master Dennet looked at her with amusement and pity.

She wondered what he would do if she told him she did not know how to ride a horse.


	18. Delegate

Dappled sunlight woke her from a dreamless sleep. It was a beautiful spring morning: the air was cold, but the sun was shining. From the direction of the shadowed leaves across her tent ceiling, it was late in the morning. For a moment, she was tempted to burrow further into blankets and just laze about for the rest of the day. But while she was in that procrastinating mood, she reminded herself that there was still much to do.

She was tired.

Despite the misgivings she had about meeting Mother Giselle (she was right about that, by the way), she looked forward to going to the Crossroads… if only to escape the lady-advisors' individual brands of scrutiny. She didn't know which one was scarier. She supposed after that she was free to do whatever she wanted and prepared her satchel and small beaded bag for a fortnight to a month of unimpeded traipsing throughout the Hinterlands, knowing that Luscious would by then cleared the most dangerous groups in the area.

She was wrong.

The phrase _delegate, delegate, delegate_ apparently did not exist in both the fictional and real Heralds' vocabulary.

She resisted. She really did. She had things to do, _dammit._

But while the surroundings and the King's Way were free of rogue templars, rogue mages, and the biggest groups of bandits, the Crossroads descended into unorganized chaos. And she couldn't abide the haphazard way everything was being done. And her fingers itched to get them all in line. It wasn't as bad as it was in Haven since the work was divided among three _very_ organized administrators of their field and a demoness whirlwind who threw a fit when they dug a latrine too close to a water source. _But here_?

Luscious was content with his main tasks and accruing some small side-quests along the way. Cassandra _was_ seeing into the managing of the troops in the area with the help of Corporal Vale. Varric shied away from too much organized responsibility but maintained and expanded his network of urchins. Solas was an elf, an apostate mage, and _he_ shied away from too much notice.

She snorted. _One could see_ him _if one looked hard enough_.

And so she had drawn up a hefty list of what needed to be done, taking into account the Luscious side-quests she remembered from the game. She also noted that the Crossroads was the Crossroads and Cresswood might have an Inquisition keep someday. The Hinterlands would be the hub from which all the spokes of Ferelden would originate bar Haven.

If only she had the talent to change her appearance at will. The people here also followed her with reverent whispers and encouraged some rumors.

A horn sounded. She sighed. _Speaking of which…_

"Wifeeeeyyyyy!"


	19. Hogwash

The part of trying to hide who and what you really are looked like an easy task in the fanfiction she read was all hogwash and hokum. She knew she wasn't a very good liar, therefore she resulted to half-truths instead and a willful misinterpretation of what the asker really meant.

But that was for who you were as a person, as an identity, as things that could be put in paper for those scribes unfortunate enough to be given the grunt work of the rank-and-file.

What was harder to conceal was what she was and what she could really do, especially when you were not particularly shy about it. Kudos to Solas for making it work somewhat.

So, when the inevitable question of who conjured the bright, bluebell flames she was carrying around in a jar when she was trying to sneakily make her way out of the hut Master Dennet provided for their party, she froze in her tracks and tried not to be a deer caught in headlights.

After she dealt with the unorganized and unwashed large pile of work at the Crossroads (a task she voluntarily took upon herself if only to stave off the irritating running commentary of her latent OCness of being somewhat orderly), she made her rounds about the area to ensure that everything _was_ being done to standards and protocol – including those in the war who surrendered themselves. Particularly the mages.

She understood the fear, the anger, and the precariousness of their situation; but they were not excuses to abandon morals and inherent common sense. But these were confusing times and people were not prone to methods of rationality. She knew. She already lived through them.

It was in no uncertain terms though that her will, the Inquisition's will, be met. Interspersing tents and wooden quarters for mages, templars, and refugees alike. Elves, humans, and dwarves intermingled with acceptable politeness and decency. They rebelled at first (such prejudice and racism!) but swift was her anger and the tongue lashing she dealt on the offenders that, a single eyebrow worthy of her world's traditionalism was enough afterwards.

The lashings she ordered for those who attempted to violate a mage sealed the deal, along with those bandits sent to build and clean latrine trenches to earn what they stole to give back to those with nothing.

Afterwards, she cooked them all the best damn mutton soup she could make this side of Thedas.

When the bemused faces of Luscious' party showed themselves three days after that was the highlight of the day, probably wondering why there was a huge mud ring in the area before the statue and people were shouting with glee and anticipation as two brawlers attempted to put each other's faces in the mud. A satisfying highlight until the prat found and called for her in his loud, booming voice.

The cretin.

* * *

Chuckles' question brought our attention to the figure hovering in the doorway trying to conceal what looked like a jar filled with those glowing deep mushrooms. Upon a closer look, the flickering sharpened to a small blue fire impossibly nestled inside the glass. It looked like that veilfire that Hawke learned from Feynriel. He didn't know it could be carried around _inside_ a container without it breaking the vessel nor setting the one carrying it on fire. But what did he know about magic, he was just a dwarf.

Ladybird turned pale, then she flushed a bit. She looked like she was trying think of excuses, but she tiredly sighed, made sure to make eye contact, and said, "I had someone conjure them up for me".

Now, why did he think she wasn't entirely telling the truth. And somehow, when he looked at him, Chuckles didn't seem to, either.

* * *

 **A/N:**

I was surfing the sand dunes, so I wasn't able to post last Saturday.

This is the last of the chapters in my writing depot, so following chapters will be slow in coming... maybe.

As always, thank you for reading!


	20. Omake I

This is an omake (or "extra" in Japanese), guys. You can treat it as part or not part of the main story.

* * *

"Where do you think you're going?" asked Callidora Penandar, a scowl on her face as she followed Ladybird outside.

Ladybird stood midway down the path, a lantern dimmed by a black cloth was clutched in one hand. She had the expression of a startled baby halla. Or more likely a young girl caught in the act of escaping her strict parent's house as she sought her erstwhile lover.

Ladybird straightened and wiped all expression on her face, trying for an innocent look. "I heard of a ruin not far from here and I wanted to see it to marvel at its architecture and survival to this day."

The magic specialist raised an inquisitive brow disbelievingly, "At this time of night?"

"As opposed to what other times of the night?" Ladybird blinked owlishly at them.

The pair, who confronted her, stood in solidarity with forbidding expressions on their countenance as if they were parents disciplining an errant child.

"It is dangerous out there, Ladybird," Callidora admonished. "We cannot have you traipsing around in the night. There are still wandering bands of rogues lying in wait in the cover of night. We cannot spare a scout or a soldier to go with you. Can't it wait until the morning?"

By now Ladybird had crossed her arms, careful with the lantern, a decided pout blooming on her face. She whined, "But I have other things to do in the morning (stupid Birdie duties)! And this is the only time I can do my own mystical, mysterious things!"

"I can do some of your duties, Wifey!" chirped Lord Luscious from the doorway of the cabin accorded by the horse whisperer.

"Delegate! Delegate! Delegate!" Ladybird turned her annoyance at Lord Luscious. "You have your own Birdie duties to do. How many times do I have to tell you: Delegate! And I am not your wife!"

"But you are—Ack!" Lord Luscious ducked down as a rock almost took his head.

Ladybird turned to her faux parents. The standoff continued, neither side relenting.

A sudden gleam of mischief came to Ladybird's eyes. "Alright, I won't go. I'll just stay in the cabin, in my bedroll, reading the book you lent me, Callidora. I seem to recall you gushing about the woman captain and how you wished that Varikon will write the next one."

* * *

He straightened from his lounging post at the window. _Wait. What?_


	21. Outmoded

I updated. Oh yes. This chapter was so stubborn; I knew what the chapter was about but the words resisted from being typed.

* * *

A tingle of awareness sparked between the intricate walls and her hand. What subtle magic retained in the faded murals recognized someone with that similar, albeit different, energy that made and fueled them once upon a time.

What a pity that they did not hold more of that ancient magic, otherwise her work would have been simpler and she would not turn to spreading the widest expanse of paper she could buy from Barnabus over the whole wall and to proceed to shade over the raised patterns with a piece of charcoal.

Her escort whistled at the size of the parchment. Probably, thinking what price she had to pay.

She wished he wasn't there; but the others did not let her go skipping into the hills without an army. She employed her haggling skills and wore them down to two: one outside to stand guard and the whistler with her to… she didn't know what he's doing inside with her actually. Probably to keep an eye on her in case she _unwittingly_ revealed anything she hadn't divulged yet.

She was itching to unpack her satchel and fish out the equipment she needed and wanted to use for this project. They were not up to her professional standards but they would do. She hardly could fling about _ofuda_ around and invite unwanted questions from her unwanted escort.

It was a pity. There were some etchings near the floor of the western wall that she was sure she hadn't seen in any other site before. Her grasp of the elvhen script was crude at best, given that she had to utilize all her linguistic/cryptographer skills in previous sites. _Tengwar runes, they were not_. But so much of what was once was was lost and mostly everything that had to do with the ancient elves were erased or bastardized.

She was not surprised at all - history was rarely kind to history.

Her arms were aching now. She put down her materials and stretched her cramped limbs. Only two walls were devoid of damage or vandalism; the mosaic tiles only dimmed by the passage of time and, her guess, by the cut-off from the energy of the fade. The shadings she acquired would be ample for a fortnight of study.

They were still not enough and they may not be what she needed.

Frustrated, she roughly took down the parchment from the wall; the abrupt action ripping the paper in half.

She groaned and put her head in her hands.

Footsteps echoed down the stone stairs and magelight illuminated the way for its owner.

Solas paused as he surveyed the scene: two walls covered in shade-filled parchment, another with a torn one, a soldier asking the Maker what he's doing with his life, and a human grasping her hair in frustration.

"Is everything alright?"

 _Apparently, two babysitters were not enough. Elvhen ruins meant feigned scholarly interest._ _Pfftt. Take this._

"Solas, do you believe in aliens?"


	22. Splintered

A young nobleman fell to his knees, his face a portrait of grief. The body of his lover laid beneath an oak tree, her face to the ground. Blood stained once pristine, expensive but sturdy clothes while a lone fly buzzed below one open eye. A long stick could be noticed not far from her outflung hand (the hills were unforgiving for a noble-bred, young woman). The swords were not kind to her when they plunged their sharp points into her belly.

In a dark fragment of the forest, the soldiers sent by Arl Teagan stood in awe of the ice sculptures that stood in ostensible majesty in the Witchwood. The wood-and-iron mobiles that hung from the trees and the long-forgotten symbols and marks on the surfaces of the rocks added to the mysticism and reputation of the region. It was a scenery that usually lends itself to stories of angry dragons, distressed damsels, and daring knights.

Which would be saved for later by the campfires. The non-distressed damsel who dared talk to the arl and ask _*cough*demand*cough*_ for assistance _because this is YOUR land_ would be by with her parchment and quill ( _god darn universe who didn't have sensible ballpoint pens_ ); they did not want demerits and miss out on that roasted ram.

The boulders and fragments of red lyrium veins destroyed were meticulously gathered and brought into the Smuggler's Cave and guarded by a barrier and the fierce bolts of Dame Bianca. Not until the trustworthy, capable sentinels could be assigned as guards would she be taking a step from the mouth of the cave. Not until the elven apostate finished examining a piece and took what conjecture he could.

Even so, that merchant from the Crossroads was eyeing the entrance with speculative, beady eyes. One piece, just one piece. But not now; he could wait.

Wolves were seen running not far from the camps, hunting their animal prey. The little ones shook with fear as they heard the howling; but the mirror-like wolfen eyes told the scouts in the trees that the terror that once reigned was felled and tomorrow a farmer would curse his luck when he stepped on poop.

The herald did not end the mage-templar war; the death of the Divine did. The explosion at the Conclave thinned both sides' numbers and forced them off the battlefield. Splintered groups scattered to the winds, leaderless and divided. Significant factions congregated to and retreated with the mages and templars who, in their political cunning, survived the disaster.

The smog lay heavy in the valley. A light mist followed intermittent rains and lingered for several days while the smoke from the numerous pyres built and lit for the corpses of the Hinterlands had wafted from various corners of the Hinterlands.

* * *

A/N:

I wanted to discuss agriculture in Ferelden and how, despite its name, the Hinterlands were the breadbasket of the kingdom. *sigh* Food will be touched upon in another chapter given how much our MGIT misses her homeland's dishes.


	23. As It Were

Exactly a year after she arrived in Thedas, the chantry in Kirkwall was destroyed by a mage with a tired heart who was influenced into revolution by a spirit of vengeance.

Because she was still no one and worried that she would encounter those who would stab first, ask never, she preferred to move from one place to another. Near cities and towns to barter and trade with what salves and ointments she made from experimented substitutes to her world's own concoctions; but she did not stay, just long enough to acquire maps and she would scamper to the woods and the valleys for ancient ruins dismissed by the ignorant.

But she had been ignorant, as evidenced with the incident at the University of Orlais. She would've been mocked by her colleagues _and_ her brothers for that rookie mistake. It was her wake-up call and she was glad that it happened at the very beginning of her venture in Thedas. _That no matter how much you know the material, how familiar you are about the pixelated version augmented by supplementary fandom merchandise, you cannot be certain that what was presented by the game makers_.

How was she supposed to know that the fucking universe really had this dimension in its arsenal?

The forests and the rivers were her sanctuary; and although their energy was different from the ones she grew up in, their spirits were akin to the ones surrounding her home and the various work sites she travelled to. They sometimes led her to forgotten relics of the past, and she was ever so grateful for more things to explore, more remains to decipher, more steps closer to her goal.

By the time she heard about what happened at the White Spire, she knew that it was only a matter of time before the landscape would lay witness to a war that has been brewing since the Chantry's inception. And when things started in Thedas, they would roll until it culminated in an event that would change the course of the world.

She would not be as free as she once was. She had no name and no connections.

She got herself hired.

* * *

 **A/N** **Look at that, I updated. I honestly forgot about this. I am so sorry. I was busy reading Naruto fanfiction.**


	24. Deep Roots

Some time ago, the matter of spirits was raised. Three types of spirits, but they had all things in common: they were not complex but reflections of the waking world wherein an idea became their identity. It was what they were, is, and will be.

Demons and spirits alike clamored to show her the corruption. Rot and decay creep steadily from the south, bringing with it the sweet, cloying smell not present in the blood of the darkspawn. Majestic trees drooped spindly branches, reaching out their claws to ensnare their victims and a buzzing noise was seeping in around her.

And the demons feasted on the agony of those who were caught in the Blight's destruction; while the spirits warped themselves into panoramas of the flight of the refugees or, perhaps if she so desired, the skirmishes the party of the Warden participated in.

She, who grew up with _kami_ , _youkai,_ and _yuurei_ (who were beings of their own like and unlike that of humans but just a different race), was not impressed.

What did the journey of the last Fereldan wardens have to do with her purpose? With her goal?

There was something else out there. Something that might help her. The spark she felt when she touched the trees that guided her in her forays deep in the Brecilian. Forgotten relics of the past.

For there were far more powerful and primal. Both wondrous and terrible.

And they answered her call.

 _The fuck is this? The Universe of the Four Gods?_

* * *

Rolling hills covered in soft green carpet overseen by a vast open sky, bluer than sapphire. Hidden glades filled with crystal grace, its old name forgotten by time. The trees remembered the embers and the smoke the augurs of the Alamarri built to commune with the beyond. But the rivers and the springs remembered how the elves of old melded and walked with the ancients.

The Fade in the Hinterlands used to be pretty.

Now, it bore the scars of the Fifth Blight and only pockets, where magic far older than the Blight dwelled, were oases from the marring.

However, he was not here to reminisce about what once was. He walked along familiar paths searching and taking note of elvhen artifacts he was not able to visit in the waking world. For they were far more telling than mere globes of Fade wards.

But, alas, half of them were destroyed, their magic lost. No matter, once he got back his own, it will more than suffice. There were others still spread across the continent, and his forays with the Inquisition will-

He paused.

The air was abuzz with eagerness and anticipation. There was a new entity in this part of the Fade. The rumors that had come from their brethren near the wounded sky spoke of a brightness that was keeping the more rebellious denizens at bay.

He watched as wisps whistled around and around the Fade trees as they hurriedly followed a spirit of Curiosity to where he knew some elvhen structure lay.

In the distance, there was the ringing of bells.

* * *

The memories here were old. Older than moonlight, deeper than the earth.

This time she allowed the Fade to shape the world to its whim.

And there they were: wards but not wards, unfamiliar runes arranged in arrays embedded in turn into larger arrays.

For the first time, she felt hope.

* * *

He found her again.

In a clearing where old magic lay, the elvhen built a place of glass and silverite and of stone capable of taking the hue of its setting. Symbols of power were etched into its walls, telling of stories from the beginning – a beginning which even the oldest could not remember. It was meant as a succor for the priests and priestesses who wanted a quiet place for reflection and refrain from their exacting duties as minders of the temples of the most high.

She was there, standing half-turned away from him, intent on something she held in her hand, fingerings flying over its surface. Curiosity was flitting around her, its glow pulsing in intervals.

The woman paused in her fiddling, then looked up at the walls. The magelights he saw around her before were not the ones keeping the adverse elements at bay.

She was singing again in the same unfamiliar language. Or was it another? It didn't have the same cadence as the first one. This time, it was not of love and longing.

But of adventure and destiny.

* * *

 **A/N: It's been a while! So, instead of the 300 words that each chapter was supposed to be I give something much longer...?**

 **It's a bit of a mess and I might come back and polish it up.**

 **As always, thank you for reading.**


	25. Author's Note

**I'm sorry for not updating. I am not satisfied with some things I wrote in the previous chapters. Therefore, I'll be editing and plotting so this fic will make more sense (even to me LOL), sort of.**

This note will be deleted and a new chapter will replace it.

 **As always, thank you for reading! See you in February.**


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